Accidentally on Purpose
by Reia
Summary: Molly needs to move on from Sherlock—who better to help her find an alternative partner than the man himself?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Once Moriarty's latest threat was dispatched with, life had turned back to a semblance of normal. Well, what was considered "normal" to Molly Hooper these days. If someone had told her that Mary Watson would ask her to be Josephine's—or Josie as she's lovingly called—godmother, she would have been confused as she'd hardly known the woman. She would have scratched her head if someone suggested that John Watson considered her a trusted colleague, especially after how suspicious he'd been once he'd learned of her part in faking Sherlock's death.

If someone had told her even a mere year ago that Sherlock Holmes would consider her _the other best friend_ , she would have laughed at their faces. Sure, she helped him fake his death, but _best_ friend was something she would have considered preposterous.

Still, that was her new reality. A lot had happened since Moriarty's face plastered itself across London and the dynamic duo that was Sherlock and John grew to include Mary—who had, at the time, been all of 8 months pregnant!—and eventually, even the unassuming Molly Hooper.

They've definitely been through a lot, they survived, and now were closer than ever.

It was why, on a rare day off, Molly Hooper was in her gym attire—faded yoga pants, tank top and trainers—at 221B Baker Street, listening intently as Mary, similarly dressed, was demonstrating various ways to perform a defensive throw. Before Molly could comprehend, John was suddenly on the floor.

"—and like that, he's flat on his arse and away we go!" Mary said cheerfully. Her tone pitched up near the end as she glanced across the living room to where Josephine was giggling in her baby bouncer. The new mother wiggled her fingers at her baby.

"Thanks, hon," John drawled from the ground.

"Now you try it," Mary said, her voice still cheerful as she waved toward John who was now brushing himself off and on his feet.

"Why does it always have to be me?" John groused. "Why aren't you girls trying to throw his majesty over?"

The man in question was in the kitchen, looking through a microscope, and unlike everyone else wearing comfortable workout clothes, was clad in dark blue dress shirt, fitted trousers and leather oxfords.

"Your height is amenable for practice while Molly learns the basics," Sherlock said without looking up from the microscope.

"Or maybe you're scarred lil' Molls will have you flat on your back faster than you can deduce," Mary countered. The way Mary said it, eye brow cocked and lips twitching, she meant to have the double entendre.

Mary had no qualms with her blatant matchmaking, gleefully teasing them both about hooking up. Both Sherlock and Molly would just ignore her—Sherlock, due to tedium; Molly, for her own sanity. After all this time, Molly was happy simply to be called a friend. Her romantic aspirations for Sherlock had sailed a long time ago; sure she adored him, but she no longer harboured any delusions about having him as an actual partner.

"Hardly. The fact that Molly harbours no sexual attraction to your husband whatsoever allows her to focus on the movements," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

Molly hadn't blushed at Mary's harmless teasing, but at Sherlock's dry words, her face suffused with colour.

 _No, definitely not an actual partner._

"Oh, for god's sake, Sherlock," John muttered.

"Don't flatter yourself," Molly burst out.

At that, Sherlock finally lifted his head from the microscope and raised both brows, arrogant disbelief on his infuriatingly handsome face. Mary and John coughed politely to the side. Molly felt like she was going to burst into flames from embarrassment, knowing exactly what _all three_ were thinking but she crossed her arms across her chest, stubbornly.

"I mean, it's been _ages_ since…" Molly stopped, composed herself. He was just doing this to rile her up out of boredom. She looked at Sherlock, hoping she looked nonchalant. "You're like a brother to me now. The taller, better dressed version of John."

"Hey!" John exclaimed.

Mary patted her husband's shoulder comfortingly. "A doctor's salary isn't really conducive to a shopping spree at Saville Row."

Sherlock rolled his eyes while standing, his movements slow like he was bestowing them a huge honour with finally breaking away from observing mould cultures.

His face was impassive as he regarded Molly. "Fine, let's demonstrate how you can escape someone taller and physically stronger."

Molly swallowed, repeating a mantra in her head— _like a brother, like a brother_ —as Sherlock began to un-button the cuffs on his shirt so he could push them up his forearms. Ugh. Why did he have such perfect arms? She'd always had a weakness for taut limbs…

Before she knew it, Sherlock pressed himself lightly against her back, his presence, let alone his height, making her feel suddenly and completely breathless. With his left hand he grasped her left bicep, and with the right, her shoulder—

Molly knew she had to act before she let him intimidate her, so she shifted and pressed herself back so she could grasp as much of his right arm as possible to complete the throw movement—

—but Sherlock had tensed the moment she'd moved and without warning pulled her body back with him as he purposely fell to the ground, his arms taut against her torso, then he _flipped_ , quickly straddling her hips.

Molly stared dazedly up at him, unsure exactly how they ended up in this position.

"Well, all right, that's our cue to leave," Mary chirped. John already had Josie in his arms, bouncing her gently as he rolled his eyes at the display in front him.

Sherlock's face was unreadable as he looked at Molly for a beat longer than necessary, before scrambling up. He didn't even offer a hand to help her get off the ground!

Mary pursed her lips in disapproval as she helped her friend up from the floor.

"No need to be so rude and dramatic, Sherlock." She turned to Molly, who was trying her very best to brush herself off and lower her heart rate.

"Throws require some element of surprise and leverage," Sherlock said evenly, as he adjusted his shirt briefly, regarding Molly like a wayward pupil. "I could have been possible to throw, if you had either of those elements. However, if you were being attacked by someone with experience in combat, they would have defensive maneuvers ingrained."

"I should kick you in the crown jewels," Molly muttered darkly, annoyed. To her surprise, Sherlock smiled.

"Precisely. With your height disadvantage, the best course of action would be to try to disable me quickly using my the most vulnerable physical spots," Sherlock responded.

He grasped her hand, shaped it into a fist and proceeded to explain, leading her fist to his throat. Her hand tingled as his fingers dropped down to her wrist.

"A punch or elbow to the throat, depending whether the attack is from the front or behind would be effective." He spread her fingers, and Molly was feeling a bit lightheaded at how much physical contact he was demonstrating. He ran her fingers lightly against the column of his throat.

Dear god.

His expression hadn't changed, but she began to wonder if he was doing all of this to contradict her earlier outburst.

If so, he was doing an excellent job, her traitorous body teased.

He spoke rapidly, enthusiastically, pressing her fingers firmly against Adam's apple: "Or depending on how desperate you are, you could claw and draw blood. It would also be a good way to gather DNA samples."

He finally dropped her hand, and she could see the corner of his lips tug upward to a smile, like he had proven some sort of silent point.

Damn the man.

"Or a swift, hard knee to the groin, followed by a left or right hook also works," John added, looking wry at the display in front of him. The slight wink Mary sent her way told Molly that the undercurrent Sherlock's demonstration had not been missed.

"Well, go on," Mary lifted her chin as a way to point to Sherlock. "Practice makes perfect. Try again."

"I'll let you throw me this time," Sherlock said, as if he were bestowing her the greatest kindness versus stating what he was supposed to do in the first place. Soon, Molly found herself again in the same position as before, and she hated, absolutely _hated_ how her heart sped up _yet again_. There must be something she could take, she thought wildly, to prevent such a physical reaction.

Still, she'd had years to master ignoring her feelings so she steeled herself, as she recounted the steps John and Mary had explained to her before. If she focused on that, she could ignore the fact that he was wearing a very pleasant misting of cologne—something expensive, something extremely subtle but there nonetheless—or that instead of his left hand at her bicep, he'd placed it against her hip, holding her form firmly against his.

She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath… and nothing. The man was an immovable object as she tried to heave him over just like Mary and John had demonstrated earlier. Her face flushed and this time, it was through exertion.

"Love, you're trying to throw him down, not lift him through sheer force," Mary explained with a chuckle. "He's a skinny one, that, but he's still got pounds on you."

"All right, don't go strain a muscle," Sherlock drawled as he lifted the hand from her hip and began to pat her back comfortingly, indicating she should cease her movements. "Take a moment. Pause. Get back into the original position and see how it feels."

His voice was firm but surprisingly kind.

"What's different with this position when you're confronted with someone taller versus someone closer to your height?" Sherlock went on.

"It…um…" Her thoughts hiccuped as she processed the fact that he was no longer teasing her, but actually trying to help. "I… need to compensate. To… get them back closer to my level."

"Excellent, so?" Sherlock prodded.

"So…" Molly trailed off, her brow furrowing in concentration as she put herself back into the original starting position, but this time instead of trying to heave him over her, she'd stepped back a bit further so that the back of her foot touched the inside part of his leg, and instead of lifting straight up, she twisted more to the side—

—and found that she was staring _down_ at amused, clear blue eyes.

"I told you she was a natural," Mary said, nudging her husband in the ribs. "It's always the quiet ones."

A rush of pride filled Molly and she couldn't help but release a happy squeal. Laughter rang around her. With adrenaline pounding in her ears, aided by the fact she was technically still on top of Sherlock, Molly enthusiastically pressed her lips against his.

It only took a moment for Molly to realize she'd committed an incredible faux pas. Their lips had literally only brushed for a second—but firmly, securely—before she'd jumped back from him as if he'd been an unattended frayed wire; he might as well have been for the jolt she felt from the tip of her head down to her toes.

She couldn't look at him, at anyone, as a shocked silence fell in the room.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Molly repeated, completely and utterly mortified. She began to pace, looking for a way to bolt, but Mary and John were blocking the exit, and behind her Sherlock had begun to get up.

"We're friends, Molly, it's fine," Sherlock said, his voice calm unlike the swirling mess of emotions she was feeling.

"Yes, of course," Molly said quietly, again tapping into the deep well of experience she had of swallowing her feelings when Sherlock was concerned. She even managed a small smile and shrug, but couldn't meet his eyes. "This is silly."

The room fell quiet again. Molly wished the ground would swallow her whole.

"Well, I think that's enough learning for today," Mary said, her tone chipper. Bless her for trying to end this torturous silence. "Josie is getting a bit finicky here, we best be heading home."

"Oh, uh…Right, right," John said, already gathering the baby's items that were scattered around the room.

"I better call a cab," Molly said, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze as she tried to find her purse. No sign of her purse, but her phone was lying by the table lamp. Just as she grasped it to make the call—

"No," Sherlock said, his tone sharp enough to cause all three of them to pause their movements. He flashed them all an irritated glare. "I meant, yes, call a cab for John and Mary, but Molly, we need to have a discussion."

Not really in the mood to be alone with Sherlock, and trying desperately to sweep what just happened as a moment of temporary insanity, Molly said, "Sherlock, it's fine. It's just that I've never wrestled with a man before! I mean… I was just a little too excited with throwing you to the ground… um, er… I mean…"

 _Stop talking, Molly, just stop talking,_ she told herself. Though Mary busied herself with her baby, Molly could tell she was having a hard time suppressing her mirth. _Gee, thanks for the support, Mary_ , Molly thought to herself wryly.

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently in the air, cutting her off. "What are you going on about? I need you to help verify my findings. Before you all rudely interrupted me, I _was_ in the middle of an experiment."

Molly couldn't fight the embarrassed flush rushing to her face. She was convinced that Sherlock was on a one-man mission to turn her into a tomato. Well, of course, he'd already moved on. Deleted it from his mind palace as inconsequential, unimportant.

Silly Molly Hooper for thinking that a kiss was somewhat a big deal.

"All righty, we're set. John's already called a cab," Mary added. She wagged a finger at them. "You two play nice now."

"Is this going to take a long time?" Molly asked Sherlock, wringing her hands anxiously. "I could take a look at your findings now and then I could hitch a ride with John and Mary—"

The familiar sound of a cab honk interrupted her tirade, and before she knew it, John and Mary were shuffling out of the apartment. Mary paused to kiss her good-bye on the cheek and whispered, "Snog him the moment we're gone."

And if that wasn't enough, she saw John whisper something to Sherlock as well that caused the brilliant detective to blink at him with a confused glance.

Molly could barely stem slapping her forehead. The Watsons were incredibly obvious, and though they were well-meaning, their constant matchmaking was starting to wear thin.

As if he could read her mind, once John and Mary were gone, Sherlock said, "The Watsons should consider a career in comedy."

"Shall I look at your experiment?" Molly said, wanting to already get out of Baker Street as soon as possible. It was one thing to be alone with Sherlock at the morgue; that was her space. But stranded with Sherlock alone in _his_ home made her feel more vulnerable than she liked.

All at once, Sherlock's demeanor brightened as he led her to the kitchen, handing her his notebook of scribbles.

"Is this about the Jenkins case?" Molly asked, as she read through the list of mycotoxins he'd scribbled down, as well as random fruits and food items.

"Yes. The severe asthma attack due to possible increased exposure to mould in his home was the initial thought," Sherlock explained, "But the type of mould sample that you scraped from his body doesn't match the ones from the walls at the scene."

Molly nodded. She had been suspicious over the death herself. "Someone had been feeding him toxins that could have been easily hidden in food."

Sherlock grinned at her widely. The genuine pleasure on his face always gave Molly a jolt of happiness. He was normally closed off, abrupt and cold, but this—this was a rare glimpse of the Sherlock she fell in love with.

"Yes, very good Molly. Would you please take a look at the microscope?"

Please. He hardly used that word, but he'd been incorporating it more and more when they interacted. He still demanded a lot from her, but each request was couched in more niceties than he had in the past, and they sounded genuine versus manipulative.

Molly sat herself down in front of the equipment and took a glance, adjusting to focus on the culture he'd been observing. So absorbed was she that she hadn't realized he was hovering directly above her, one of his arms behind the chair, and the other on the table.

She turned her head to confirm what he must have deduced—the mould culture he looked at was similar, but different from the sample she'd taken at the morgue—but the words died in her throat as she realized how close they actually were. That if she lifted her chin an inch, the gap would close between them—

The not-so-subtle throat-clearing followed by a brow lift, caused Molly to startle and flush to the tips of her toes.

 _Ugh._ At this rate, red would be her natural state.

His lips twitched as he straightened to his full height and said calmly, "So?"

"Er, yes," Molly said, scrambling to grab the remnants of her dignity. She was getting a little annoyed, since he clearly was enjoying her behavior. She tried to keep her voice even as she, too, stood. "It's as you suspect. These aren't the same cultures from the walls."

He inclined his head, that infuriatingly amused smile still dancing on his lips. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper."

"You know, you don't have to look so smug," Molly burst out.

Sherlock, completely used to far worse accusations and outbursts, simply shrugged and smiled more widely. Oh, she wanted to slap his face so badly… But since he hadn't committed a crime—behaving like an arse didn't count—Molly couldn't really justify it.

"It's not kind to play with my feelings that way. Earlier, too, with… with the demonstration, just so you could stroke your ego," Molly said, deciding to just have it out with him. He was behaving atrociously and using her emotions as a plaything!

At that, he angled a wry glance. "Does it look like I have a self esteem problem? Lying is unbecoming. There's no point in lying to me of all people, Molly Hooper, you should know that."

Molly rubbed her temples. He truly didn't get it. "Have you heard of a self-fulfilling prophecy, Sherlock? At any rate, this isn't what friends do to each other. It… it hurts me."

Sherlock had the grace to look mildly chagrined. "Oh."

Molly sighed deeply, waving her hand wearily. "I know you don't mean to. Hurt me, I mean. You're… trying to be funny… or whatever. But it really isn't funny to me. It just reminds me that…"

She glanced at him, as he regarded her with furrowed brows. She shook her head, and began to glance around the room trying to remember where she placed her purse. "I have to go."

Sherlock said nothing as she left the kitchen to search for her bag. Suddenly, Sherlock grasped her elbow.

"Wait. I'm sorry, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said quietly.

And suddenly, it was Christmas all over again.

"Yeah, well, it's fine," Molly said, capitulating easily. She hated awkwardness and tension. She couldn't really be angry with him for too long. "I know you're just teasing, but it would be… nice if you kept it at a minimum. And maybe not in front of John and Mary?" Molly added. "It just adds fuel to the fire with those two."

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said dryly. "The boredom of marriage must be finally setting in."

"Something like that," Molly said lightly, her eye finally spying her purse which had somehow gotten shoved into a nook by Sherlock's couch.

As she headed to the seat, she found Sherlock following absurdly close.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Molly snapped, sounding way more irritated than she actually was. His proximity was making her nervous since he normally kept a respectable distance.

"We're… all right?"

Molly couldn't help but release a long sigh, her shoulders slumping. He could be such a child at times, both due to his brattiness and also his naiveté. She squeezed his arm lightly and smiled.

"We're all right. I'm just a mite sensitive. I haven't had a date in a while, so‚" Molly said, chuckling self-deprecatingly. Feeling the need to also embarrass him, since she had been the afternoon's teasing target, she added quite boisterously, "I probably just need a good shag."

Instead of getting flustered, Sherlock's expression turned thoughtful. "Hm."

Now what on earth did _that_ mean? Molly wondered. Sherlock was the real mystery! Deciding that she might (purposely or by accident) be soundly insulted again, Molly decided it was time to make her exit. "Well, purse acquired. Thanks for the self defense lesson—"

Molly thought she might as well have bene talking to a wall, as Sherlock had that unfocused faraway look that said she'd already been soundly dismissed in favor of his mind palace.

She tried not to think about his odd reaction to her declaring need for sex as she silently left Baker Street, completely oblivious to Sherlock following her movements from the window.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Molly hadn't heard from Sherlock since the weekend "incident" so she was more than a little relieved when he swooped in to St. Bart's demanding to see the suspected mould-induced murder body of Mr. Jenkins. As far as she could tell, the moment had probably already been erased—he paid her no extra heed. He was more or less as abrasive as he normally was.

She was glad—she hoped that her actions and their follow-up conversations wasn't going to affect their friendship. While her heart still stung with the knowledge Sherlock would never want anything beyond that, each day made it easier for her to come to grips to that reality.

Two steps forward.

Though, she still had to figure out how to tamper the way her body reacted whenever she caught a whiff of that cologne, and to stop herself from gaping at him especially when he was concentrating on a case. There was just something about the way he was _so_ focused as he examined Mr. Jenkins—impressive enough that even without formal training he understood how to perform an inspection—that was just irresistible.

One step back.

Was it the way his brows furrowed as he looked through the magnifying glass? The way he pursed his lips as an unconscious tell for when he was deliberating something in his mind?

Or maybe he was just the most magnificent looking man she'd ever laid eyes on?

She was jolted out of her dreamy observations when John bumped into her, as he, too, examined the body.

"Sorry," Molly said, moving out of his way, and he gave her a strange look, causing her to colour slightly. Had John noticed her ogling Sherlock shamelessly?

John had been flashing her more side glances than the normal shared eye-roll at Sherlock's antics. She felt like something was on her face—but a quick glance at the reflective surface of a morgue slab and she didn't see anything odd or out of place.

Sherlock pocketed his mini magnifying glass, drawing back up to his full height as he finished his final examination of Mr. Jenkins. "As I expected."

Sherlock whipped out his phone and began texting.

This time, Molly and John deliberately shared a look, both of them shrugging.

Before John could ask what he was doing, Sherlock already responded: "Telling Lestrade to gather a warrant to search the trainer's yard, garden and compost to gather samples of the mould found in Mr. Jenkins. And we'll have our suspect. Molly—"

Sherlock raised his arm imperiously, not unlike a royalty commanding a servant. "I'd like to review the autopsy report one last time."

Molly crossed her arms and raised her brows. "Magic word."

The detective rolled his eyes. "Please."

"Of course, sir, right away sir," Molly said, with a small, exaggerated curtsy—he _was_ behaving like some sort of crown prince.

John snickered and elbowed his best friend on the ribs. "Are you _sure_ mate? I mean—"

"I'd like it some time _today_ , Molly," Sherlock broke in sharply, and Molly had the sneaking suspicion that there was some unspoken conversation happening in the same room. She frowned slightly, but went on to fetch the report as requested.

When she came back to the morgue, she witnessed angry whispers between the two of them, and finally she had it.

"All right. What's going on?" Molly demanded.

"On?" Sherlock's expression was so obviously fake she wondered if he was even _trying_ to hide whatever it was the two of them were talking about.

"John's been giving me odd looks all afternoon," Molly said, "And now you're both whispering around like you're keeping something _from_ me _about_ me. What is it?"

"Molly, Sherlock thinks—" John stepped forward and looked about to say something when Sherlock blocked his way.

"—that it's about time you have a break," he said, smoothly. "When was the last time you went on holiday?"

Molly's eyes rounded. Now she knew something was _definitely_ on. Sherlock would be the _last_ person to suggest she take _any_ days off. In fact, if it wasn't for placing her phone in Do Not Disturb mode between the hours of midnight and 6 in the morning, she would be _tethered_ to Sherlock as his personal lab assistant.

However, she was curious to see where this line of conversation was going to go, so she shrugged while angling a questioning look at John, who shrugged back.

"I dunno. Last one I planned was my honeymoon, but," she forced a laugh, "you all know how that went."

John opened his mouth but Sherlock lifted his hand in a shooing motion, causing the army doctor to sigh.

"Where did you plan to go?" Sherlock asked.

"Why? Are you taking me there?" Molly asked, brows raised.

Sherlock flashed her a reproachful look.

 _Can't blame a girl for trying_ , Molly thought to herself. As he continued to stare at her expectantly, she realized he was still waiting for an answer.

"You really want to know?"

Sherlock waved his hand as if to say, "Go on."

"France—Oh, don't give me that look! I know it's cliche," Molly added defensively.

"No, no, it's perfect," Sherlock said with what could only be described as an _eager_ smile. He clasped his hands, the same way he did whenever he was excited about something. _What on earth?_

"Let me guess: Nice for the first half… then the city of lights for the last week?"

Molly started. "How…?"

Sherlock raked his gaze over her and bumps began to prickle her skin. His assessing look always made her feel simultaneously exposed, annoyed… and stupidly aroused.

"You'd diet down unnecessary pounds so you could lie on the beach, bronze yourself and take flattering photos. But it's still a Molly Hooper vacation, so you'd want to end it stuffing your face with pastries in Paris—but no scanty swimsuit is required for that part, ergo no need to feel self conscious for the camera."

Molly looked at John, baffled and more than a bit embarrassed at the (accurate) assessment, but the shorter man looked as confused as she was.

"Your point, Sherlock?" John prompted.

"France is a perfect place for romance," Sherlock said. John groaned beside him. Sherlock pointedly ignored John, then nodded decisively towards her direction. "You should go."

 _This conversation is getting really odd,_ Molly thought.

"Yes, I will just drop everything and go straight away," Molly said, her face droll. "I'll use the unlimited funds I have and just tell Stamford, toodledo!"

"Don't worry about it," Sherlock said readily. "Mycroft still owes you for your involvement in the Moriarty ordeal."

"This is ridiculous," John said quiet enough to make it seem like he didn't want to be heard, but loud enough to telegraph to Molly that he _did_ want her to hear it.

At that, Molly looked at Sherlock, then John, then back again. She frowned. "You know I don't need a reward for helping."

 _What is going on?_ Molly wondered.

"Don't you have findings to go over?" John suddenly prompted, motioning toward the folder in Molly's hand.

"September is the _perfect_ time to go to Nice," Sherlock went on as if John hadn't spoken, but stretched his hand out for the folder all the same. "Still warm enough for the sunbathing you seek, but not scorching."

Molly sighed as she handed over the folder, realizing that both men weren't going to be forthcoming over the past hour's strangeness. She will just have to get the details from Mary.

"Yes, it would be nice," Molly allowed warily. "Will that be all, gentlemen? I do have other work to do."

"Come on, time to head to Scotland Yard," John said. " _Let's leave this poor woman alone_."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then tilted his head boyishly. "Think about it, Hooper."

She flashed him a confused, tremulous smile as the dynamic duo bounded out of the hospital.

.

.

.

 _Earlier that day…_

"What in the world…?" John Watson muttered, as his eye caught the contents of Sherlock's laptop screen. Gruesome crime scenes, dismemberment, and dead bodies were relatively normal — for Sherlock — to have on his browser, but this… this was a whole new level of disturbing.

Dating sites. Several of them. With the search results all men.

Not that there was anything wrong with that! John thought. He just assumed after Irene and Janine, that Sherlock's tastes were more toward that side of the spectrum. And he'd been _convinced_ something was going on between Sherlock and their pathologist.

Frankly, more surprising than the results themselves was the fact that Sherlock Holmes was doing something as pedestrian as looking for a date!

"Aha, so what do you think John?" Sherlock said as he entered the living room. His best friend swept through the area and waved at the laptop without any hint of awkwardness. John cleared his throat, a bit startled by how nonchalant his best friend was being about essentially coming out of the closet after all this time, but if that was how Sherlock wanted to play it…

"Well, I guess it's about time?" John said, lilting his tone questioningly, cautiously.

A sharp nod. "Indeed. I've separated the browser tabs by service and narrowed down the filters as much as I could. Five-ten I believe is the shortest, but I think any taller than six-two would make intimacies a bit awkward. Or am I being presumptuous?"

John blinked rapidly. Were they actually having this conversation? Did he accidentally swallow another one of Sherlock's experiments? "I dunno, mate. Whatever you think is best, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded quickly again as he sat down to scroll through the results. "Height was an obvious filter, and I've also inputted education, but the interest filters are woefully lacking."

"What, you mean no forensics option?" John joked.

"Precisely. Just inanity, such as movies and eating," Sherlock said with a mock shudder. "For all the technology has advanced, these dating websites are woefully underpowered and will require some manual analysis. I plan to narrow all of this down to five workable options."

John shook his head briefly, baffled at the man. Sherlock was always full of surprises. "Um, can I ask what's the urgency? And… I mean, I'm happy for you. Really! But there's no need to rush this."

Sherlock's brows went to his hairline. "No rush? This is an emergency."

"Sorry? Emergency?"

"Alright, so this _pieinthesky35_ person," Sherlock went on as if John hadn't spoken, as he clicked on a profile. "Nope allergic to cats. Strike. Maybe this will go faster than expected."

John shook his head, thoroughly confused. "I… think we somehow have our wires crossed. Why are we looking through dating sites again?"

"Focus, John! We're looking for eligible bachelors between the ages of 35 and 45, fit, and gainfully employed, highly educated. Possibly posh. No cat allergies, must love… ugh… musical theatre. Someone who will value independence and a variable and often unpredictable work schedule, and not prone to jealous fits due to the presence of other men."

John blinked rapidly. All of that sounded about right, except— "Wait wait wait. Why are cat allergies so important? You don't own a cat. And didn't you once rant to me about the abomination of Andrew Lloyd Webber?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "Yes? What's that have to do with anything?"

John was getting extremely irritated, so he took a calming breath. "So why would you care if someone was allergic to cats let alone want to see 'Cats?'"

Silence descended and Sherlock's expression slowly morphed into one of quiet but blatant disbelief. "These bachelors are not for me."

A few more moments of silence, then John finally found his voice.

"Oh. Um. What?"

"Not that there's anything wrong with you thinking that," Sherlock was quick to add, then lifted a brow. "We talked about this. We're searching for a partner for Molly Hooper."

"We're—what?!" Suddenly, everything began to make a bit more sense, but also no sense at all. "We didn't talk about this!"

Sherlock pursed his lips and tapped his cheek, his expression a mite chagrined. "Hm. Perhaps you're right. I spoke to your mind palace equivalent. I get you both mixed up at times."

"You are an odd duck," John said dryly, but was used to Sherlock's quirky mannerisms by now. "But you can't blame a bloke for thinking this was for you! I mean, all the search criteria more or less would match—"

"Absurd. You should know by now my preferences. Especially since you've watched all the porn on my laptop, too," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. John coughed to cover his embarrassment, but it was true. Not that he thought of his best friend's sexual preferences in any way! Oh God, now he was getting embarrassed in his own mind.

"Anyway," John said, trying to get back to matter at hand. "I thought you asked me over for a case. And speaking of absurd—this. Is this about last weekend? That little… moment… you two had?"

Sherlock ignored him and went on. "She doesn't seem to have a direction. At first I thought she had an inkling for sociopaths, but… the common thread isn't psychopathy. It's, um…"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, it's _you_ , you dolt."

"Since that option is off the table," Sherlock stressed, clearly irritated now, "This is the next logical conclusion."

"Only _you_ would find this logical. I'm going to guess that I will soon regret listening to all this. Look, Sherlock… whatever Molly feels for you—that's not up to you to manipulate, exploit, change, or whatever strange thing you're concocting now since we're slow on murder leads. Just leave her alone!"

"I've done nothing but leave her alone since she got herself engaged to Ted! And yet—" He shrugged helplessly.

"Tom."

"Who cares?"

"Well, whatever twisted logic led you to this—you, of all people, playing matchmaker? This will just embarrass her!"

"Not if she didn't know I was behind it," Sherlock smirked.

John stilled. "What?"

At that, Sherlock's grin grew. "I believe pop culture calls the term, 'meet cute.'"

.

.

.

Meanwhile, at St. Bart's, Molly Hooper sneezed.

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.

John blinked. Sherlock blinked back.

As the silence went on, John finally had it and said in an incredulous tone, "Wait. You're serious."

"Considering the interest you and your wife have on Molly's love life, I thought you'd be on board."

"On board?!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock's tone was brusque as he waved John off. "Oh, do take that judgmental look off your face."

John wasn't sure whether to throw his hands in the air to just start throttling the man already. He settled for shaking his head, both to clear it and in disbelief. "No. _No_ , Sherlock. Molly is an adult. She does not need _you_ of all people, to meddle in her affairs."

"Why not?"

"You really need me to explain?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Remove emotion from the equation and think _logically_. Of _course_ I would be the best person to help choose Molly Hooper's mate." He lifted his fingers and began to tick it off. "I know Molly's likes, dislikes. I understand her eccentricities. I care about her well being _and_ I have the resources to find out if he's a serial killer _before_ their first date."

"Great, yeah, great."

"You see?" Sherlock grinned.

"No, you idiot, I was being _sarcastic_." John took a deep breath and grasped Sherlock's arms, staring him right in the eyes. John had to make sure he was listening. "Sherlock, Molly is in love with you."

If John wasn't glaring at him so directly, he might have missed the way Sherlock's brows furrowed, which he immediately covered up by breaking from his grip and whirling away.

"I know that. This is why this is an emergency," Sherlock said brusquely, staring intently at the laptop as if it had all the answers.

"Sherlock—" John was fast getting frustrated.

"I can't give her what she needs, John," he said, so quietly that John had to strain to hear. John stilled at Sherlock's tone and watched in amazement as the normally cool detective's face fell, as dating options scrolled down the screen.

"It's not fair that she's alone."

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 _A/N: I am writing this by the seat of my pants. No idea where it'll go. :P_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Molly frowned as she looked down at the email in her smartphone, then back up at the door number. 351. Yes, she was in the right building, the right area… but the classroom was decidedly empty. Did she get the dates and times mixed up?

"Excuse me, can I help you?"

Molly jumped, startled, and her phone went flying. Remarkably, it didn't fall into an expensive crunch on the tile floor, but bounced off a button-down chest and onto a pair of hands. As she lifted her eyes to apologize profusely, the words dried up in her throat as she caught herself looking at twinkling brown eyes behind dark-rimmed wayfarers.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he went on.

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, I—" Molly started, then took a calming breath. There really wasn't any reason to apologize. She smiled and waved around the hallway. "I was invited to do a lecture on maggots."

She cringed internally, wondering how that sounded to a stranger, but instead, Wayfarer simply tilted his head curiously. "Oh? Well you _are_ in the microbiology department. Whose class were you guest lecturing for?"

Molly's brows knit as she tried to recall. "A Dr. Phillip Crane?"

At that, his brows rose to his sandy hairline. "Really."

That was an odd reaction. "Um, yes? Perhaps you can point me to his office?"

He shook his head, a smile dancing on his lips. "No need."

He stretched his hand out, and they exchanged her device as if handing a tip from a patron to a bellhop. However, instead of letting her hand go, his free hand cupped the back of hers.

"Phillip Crane. A pleasure."

Molly coloured at the gesture and gently extricated her hand from his grip. She tried to hide her surprise. She expected a gray-haired researcher. "Oh! Well, I'm Dr. Molly Hooper. I'm a resident pathologist at St. Bart's."

"Your name sounds familiar," he said.

"It _was_ on the email," Molly said dryly.

"What email?" He sounded genuinely confused.

Molly pulled up the message on her phone, indicating the clear invite to his class and the inquiry about lecture. "Someone in your office invited me at this time?"

He leaned back, crossing his arms against his chest. Molly noted that he was quite smartly dressed for someone who was meant to be a professor. "Hm. With the start of the new school year, we do have a round up of potential guest lecturers. I suppose one of my assistants got a little ahead of themselves, because I had no idea you were coming. It's a lab block today, not a lecture."

"Oh, I…see?" Molly sighed, trying not to be irritated. She had rearranged her work schedule to accommodate this morning in drop in. She enjoyed the opportunity to share knowledge to eager students; it was a rare person indeed who would enjoy discussing rates of decay and a classroom was full of them. Stamford encouraged it, since it was also a way to pre-screen potential interns.

"Good thing I was wandering the halls!" Dr. Crane went on with a smile. He really had quite a pleasant face, Molly thought. Kind. "But I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule your talk another time. It sounds fascinating, though."

He paused, and she noticed his eyes dance around her face, as if trying to read her. It eerily reminded her of another tall, intelligent man that always was at the back of her mind… she halted her thoughts. _Nope. Stop that, Hooper._

"I have a break at the moment and was actually heading to my office to grab an early lunch, but… perhaps you can join and we can discuss the lecture you were planning to give?"

Molly blinked rapidly. There was something about the tone of his voice that suggested his invite wasn't entirely professional—was she imagining things? It had been such a long time since she'd been on a date… still, he was friendly, and frankly, quite handsome. Professional lunch or not, she wasn't against having a conversation with someone smart and nice.

"That would be great. At least my trip here wouldn't be for naught," Molly said.

"Excellent. What a great coincidence that I ran into just at the right time."

"Yes, indeed!"

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.

.

"Is that Molly Hooper?!"

Sherlock Holmes flashed his best friend an irritated glance. "Yes? Your point?"

John Watson rubbed his forehead. "Please tell me that we are truly here, in a campus cafe, to do reconnaissance on an alleged rare book thief—not because you've actually followed through your cockamamie scheme with setting Molly up on a date?"

Sherlock adjusted his fake mustache and shrugged. "Two things can be true."

"OK, I am _leaving_ ," John stated, getting up.

"Stop making a scene," Sherlock drawled, motioning him to sit. "We _are_ on a case. My suspect happens to frequent the same cafe, considering it is one of the university staff. Why would I make that up? You read the case file yourself."

John sighed, and after a moment, plopped back down onto the bench, which was situated far enough in the cafe to not draw too much attention.

"I've simply timed it so that we can _also_ evaluate the first prospect I've lined up for Molly."

John began to stand up again.

"I thought you'd at least agree with your wife."

John flopped back down, this time in shock. "What do you mean?"

At that, Sherlock spared him a glance, one brow cocked. "You haven't discussed this at length with Mary? She was the one who provided the necessary background checks for me."

John was more confused than annoyed, but as if reading his mind, Sherlock waved his hand.

"Go on. Call your wife and verify."

John shifted on the bench, very irritated now, and did just that. After the first ring—

"Oh ho! So he's filled you in, yeh?" Mary's tone was lilting and dripping with amusement.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" John responded, while his devious wife giggled in response.

"Come on now, you don't think I really took Sherlock seriously, do you?" Mary scoffed on the line, her voice carefully low so only he could hear. "Anyway, let's talk about it more when you get home. But for now, just go along will you?"

"I will not go along with—"

"You know how Sherlock gets when he has an idea in him. Just let him play around for a bit and we'll do as much damage control as we can."

"I don't know why you didn't just talk him _out of this ridiculous plan!_ " John emphasized the last for Sherlock to hear, but the detective was already scoping out Molly and her lunch date quite intently.

John was about to soundly lecture his wife for encouraging these turn of events when Sherlock abruptly stood up.

"I spot our suspect. Time to move, Watson," Sherlock said, already taking long strides toward the exit—and toward Molly and her lunch date!

"Oh dear god," John muttered.

"What's going on?" Mary asked.

"This conversation isn't over, but I have to go," John said quickly, as he switched his gaze from Molly to the suspect at hand, who happened to have just paid for a sandwich and was heading to the exit.

"Allrightloveyoubyebye," Mary said in a rush, and somehow managed to hang up before John was able to.

John resisted to urge to shout Sherlock's name since they were both technically in disguise. As he quickly followed the detective, he marveled a bit at how Sherlock whirled around unnoticed, and most of all, that Molly hadn't looked up from her lunch companion even as Sherlock dangerously passed _directly behind_ her.

John, however, wasn't as cavalier and opted to hedge around the other tables to remain unnoticed. As the suspected book thief began to get away completely oblivious to their pursuit, John quickly switched gears from worried friend to the consulting detective's partner.

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.

.

Molly stopped talking about decomposition rates for a moment as she had the strange feeling of being watched. Ever since her self defense lessons began with Sherlock and the gang, she had been honing her general observation skills. However, as she paused to look around, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Something the matter?" Phillip—they were on first name basis now—asked.

"No, just go distracted for a second," Molly said dismissing her strange feeling as a paranoid fluke. She flashed Phillip a smile and noticed how his cheeks reddened as a result. She may be a little rusty in the dating game, but she _could_ tell when a man fancied her.

It was too bad, she lamented, then halted herself. Why was it too bad? He was perfectly nice, she was single…

… _and in love with another man_ …

"Into the habit of daydreaming, then?" Phillip broke in with amusement, and Molly wondered if she was coming off as flighty—the absolute last thing she would want to portray as a woman in medicine.

"Not really," she said firmly. "I just have a lot on my mind. I think maybe I need to get back to work…"

"Understood. It was lovely to meet you, Molly. I'll have my assistant schedule a _proper_ time for your lecture," Phillip said, standing up as she began to gather her purse.

"Yes, what a strange mix up!" Molly exclaimed. She stretched her hand out for a final handshake. "Thank you for lunch, you didn't have to pay for it."

"Perhaps we should get a bite to eat outside of campus another day?" Phillip asked, hopefully, as he grasped her outstretched hand gently.

Molly was tempted to say _yes_ , simply to break her dateless rut, but she learned a lot from her relationship with Tom. She wasn't going on a date with _any_ man unless she really felt there was sparks, potential. While no one so far had usurped Sherlock in her heart, the least she could do was set boundaries so that the next man she dated would actually give him a run for his money.

She had done tepid, slow, and safe. She was ready for something with more fire. If John and Mary could find each other, she was sure that she could find the same… even if it wasn't Sherlock.

"That's very kind, but… I think it's best we keep things professional," Molly said carefully, pulling her hand away.

Phillip inclined his head, taking her rejection with grace. Damn. He truly was a nice man.

He smiled and then surprised her with his follow-up question, "May I ask then if the rumours are true?"

"What rumours?"

"I remember now where I recognized your name—from the papers. You helped bring down Moriarty, correct?"

Molly suddenly felt flustered. The entire Moriarty ordeal was so strange, as was the ensuing circus of press that followed. She shrugged, awkwardly. "Well, I suppose I lent a hand. Sherlock did all the work, really."

"So you and the detective…?"

Molly shook her head rapidly, but her face suffused with heat all the same. Did people think…? She hadn't read any of the news, she was so shy and embarrassed at the ensuing fuss and publicity. She had no idea anyone would interpret anything more.

"No, no, we're just… he's not like… we're friends." All her words sounded rushed and breathless.

"Ah, I see," Phillip said, but he sounded confused. He smiled all the same, a trait that started to inexplicably irritate Molly. Would he smile at anything and everything?

"Yes, well…" Molly shuffled awkwardly on her feet, suddenly feeling the need to bolt.

"I'll see you later, then," Phillip said.

Molly nodded and quickly gathered her things, sensing that Phillip was going to try to extend their goodbye as long as possible. She hoped that future dating wouldn't be so awkward! As she left, she pondered whether she should pore through old news articles about Moriarty's downfall.

.

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"Too safe," Mary declared.

John couldn't believe how blasé his wife was behaving about Sherlock's crazy scheme. After they found all the clues to convict the rare book thief, Sherlock invited himself over for dinner to discuss his _other_ case with Mary—Operation Molls, a wholly unoriginal name, to describe Sherlock's obsessive matchmaking scheme for Molly Hooper.

Josie gurgled in her mother's arms, and Mary inclined her head. "See, Josie agrees. I told you, a professor would be too safe for our Molls."

"But he fits most of the other criteria," Sherlock said as he scrolled through the tablet with Dr. Phillip Crane's biography.

"Maybe if he was more Indiana Jones, less Nutty Professor," Mary said with a chuckle.

"Who?" Sherlock stared at her in confusion.

"I honestly cannot believe we are having this conversation," John broke in.

"I don't think you're taking this seriously," Mary said, completely ignoring her husband to look pointedly at Sherlock. "You _know_ she won't go for safe, unconsciously or not."

"Yes, but I'd rather she not find herself with secret criminal masterminds," Sherlock said drolly.

"I think there's quite a spectrum between being an _actual danger_ to society and herself and someone a little less _obvious_ and boring as a professor!" Mary said. "I mean, take _me_ for example—No." She flashed John a dangerous look, and John wasn't sure to be annoyed or amused. "Shut it, before you get yourself in trouble."

John flapped his mouth open and closed, not unlike a fish. "I didn't say anything."

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "Then what do you suggest? All the online prospects were frighteningly staid. It was next to a miracle finding Dr. Crane listed in one of them."

"Mycroft."

Sherlock shook his head rapidly, while John frowned curiously at his wife. So he wasn't going along with this entire ruse, but bringing up Mycroft was odd indeed and all right, he was a _little_ bit curious where this insanity was headed.

"Molly is _not_ going to be paired up with my brother!" Sherlock's face turned an interesting shade of purple. John was certain this was the first time the detective managed to be shocked _and_ scandalized.

Mary burst out laughing. "Oh, you silly man. Of course not. That's not what I meant. Can you imagine?" She and John shared a look. "No, I mean Mycroft knows all the above-board-yet-shady people of London, does he not? I'm sure _one_ of them is single and wants their secret identity to have a girlfriend."

"Can you hear the words coming out of your mouth?" John said, shocked at what Mary was suggesting. She shrugged and winked at John, but it didn't ease his discomfort especially when Sherlock's face turned disgruntled but thoughtful.

"It would save us time doing background checks since Mycroft would have access to that information easily," Mary went on. "Most of us lead rather regular lives when we're not working. It's not like my nursing degree came out of thin air, you know."

The room was silent as Sherlock contemplated Mary's suggestion, but after a few moments, John had had enough.

"All right, since I'm the only one with a reason in this room," John exclaimed. "I'm going to declare that I am _not_ going to be part of a random secret agent slash borderline criminal matchmaking society for damaged adults. You both should put an end to this before Molly gets hurt." He extended his hands and took Josie from Mary's arms. "Josie and I are leaving before our brains are infected by all this insanity."

"Oh good, she needs her nappy changed," Mary said cheerfully, unaffected by John's outburst.

Sherlock merely continued to swipe through his tablet, looking at God knows what at this point, and John had the sinking notion that despite him removing himself from the room, that he had actually been soundly dismissed!

John was just finishing securing Josie's diaper in the baby room when his wife waltzed in the door.

"All right, so I shooed Sherlock away," Mary said, wrapping her arms around his torso from behind, and he stiffened at the contact. "Oh come on, don't be mad at me! I've got a plan."

"I don't like this, Mary," John said. "You said you were just playing around on the phone earlier. But you _know_ Sherlock's going to try to follow up on your ludicrous suggestion."

"I know, that's why I made it. Otherwise, he wouldn't believe I was serious," Mary said with amusement. "It's all rather ridiculous how far he's going to deny his feelings for Molly, isn't it?"

John turned around and tried to glare at his wife, but it was hard to stay mad at her as she nuzzled his chest. "But what now?"

"Like I said, I have a plan," Mary said her expression quite confident.

"Which is?" John asked with a bit of exasperation.

"We tell Molly."

"What?!"

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	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Molly looked down at her passport, then back up, then down again. There was still time to _fix_ this. To change her mind.

To kill Sherlock Holmes with her bare hands.

She swallowed the anger that began to bubble up as she glared daggers at the back of his fashionably coifed head—she thought his curls were gorgeous, but somehow, even tamped down in disguise he still managed to look stylish.

He paid no heed as he sighed impatiently at the security line up at Heathrow. While he had traipsed around Europe unrecognized for two years straight—a complete mystery to Molly since Sherlock was one of the most strikingly unique men she's ever seen!—and often was whisked off on a private jet for some sort of case that took him away from his beloved London…apparently there wasn't enough budget this time around, as their tickets were for coach.

Though, apparently, they were supposed to be in some sort of disguise, as this was _supposedly_ some stupid mission that he stupidly thought that she stupidly swallowed at face value.

Stupid.

This was _stupid_ , Molly thought again, simultaneously furious and upset, though it gave her great satisfaction that Sherlock seemed to have little clue. He never _was_ that in tune with her feelings… or he _chose_ to ignore them except apparently when it involved _him._ He and Moriarty were really quite similar in that way.

Selfish.

That arrogant son of a bitch.

And now she was on a plane to France with aforementioned selfish prat, pretending to be a mission where she had to pose as his _sister_. Or, step sister. They looked too different to be genetically related, he said. Something about a rich so-and-so and a ball and a blah blah… she remembered tuning out most of his prattling, as she knew it to be all false. It didn't matter. _Nothing_ was at stake here.

So she'd merely nodded and off-handedly joked about how she was finally going on her dream trip—and for a split second, she noticed a flash of guilt strike his face. It was a mere twitch, and if they hadn't been in close quarters and in grave danger in the recent past and become closer friends, she might not have noticed it. But, Molly saw everything.

She always saw, when Sherlock was concerned.

While Mary had tipped her off over Sherlock's plan early on, she probably would have gathered something was off due to that tell, anyway. She had been so angry, finding out that Sherlock was running around trying to foist her off to some random bloke, as if arranging such a thing would easily swat the nuisance her feelings were for him.

And it hurt. It hurt knowing how _embarrassed_ he was about it. That he couldn't respect her enough to understand that all she needed was time. She _knew_ that she had no chance with him—he didn't have to bludgeon her over the head with that fact.

And now, she was on a flight to her dream location with her dream man on a nightmare premise. If she hadn't been so furious about the entire plot and Mary hadn't been so convincing about her going and enjoying herself on the Holmes' dime, she probably wouldn't have agreed to this ridiculous scheme.

She was having second thoughts. She wasn't sure how she could handle even spending another moment with Sherlock knowing what he was trying to do.

 _Free trip to France. Abandon Sherlock the moment you're able_ , Mary had told her soothingly. Molly suspected Mary had some hypnosis training in her past life as a spy as it all had sounded rational to her at the time.

But now, after the adrenaline had worn off and she was checked in and lined up at security, she was having second thoughts.

"Passport and boarding pass, please," airport security barked at Molly, causing her to startle and break from her thoughts. She noticed Sherlock was already past this initial step and was at the security check point removing his navy Burberry trench coat—his usual Bellstaff would be too heavy for sunny Nice.

In a panic, Molly hastily shoved the documents to the airport security who narrowed his eyes at her erratic movements.

Oh God. She was doing this.

.

.

.

 _How does she know?_ Sherlock angled a glance at his seat mate fidgeting with the flight magazine, quite obviously pretending to read.

Since the security check, Sherlock had deduced Molly Hooper's understanding of the trip. It wasn't necessarily anything she said or explicitly did, as it was about the lack of excitement she had about finally going to France.

Molly Hooper's optimism and joy over the smallest things were her constant, and she was plainly miserable and failing to hide it. Originally, he suspected she had just been anxious about flying and so had readily dismissed her uncharacteristic twitches and voice inflections during the cab ride. And then he thought maybe she was just worried about the semi-fake—it was maybe a 2-3 in Sherlock's scale and didn't really require Molly—case they were on; she always worried when she tagged along on cases but put on a brave face anyway.

She thought he _hadn't_ suspected. So she would flash him false smiles and chirp excitedly about what she would eat and museums she would check out.

But Sherlock Holmes knew Molly Hooper. The smiles never reached her eyes.

And now, just before take-off, Sherlock Holmes was racking his brain as to how Molly found out. John? John wanted nothing to do with this scheme and thought Sherlock was being reckless. Would John have tipped her off anyway? But if so, then why was Molly still on this trip, pretending she was oblivious?

 _Why_ didn't she stop all of this, if she knew _and_ was simultaneously upset about it all?

He was beginning to wonder why he hadn't confronted her himself. He'd tried a few times on the way to the gate—he'd take a breath, ready to apologize (falsely; he didn't think he had done anything wrong but had recognized it was sometimes necessary) or more likely logically explain his case… it all depended on how he read her mood.

But she'd proven to be inscrutable. The words would die on his throat as she clutched at the boarding pass, and he'd see a glimmer of longing… Since this was a last minute trip on an airplane, she didn't bother with makeup and the tired smudges under her eyes were prominent. And he realized that his small observations of Molly needing a getaway were more accurate than he had flippantly deduced. She needed to go on a trip anyway…

So he kept his mouth shut, pretending that he didn't notice _her_ pretending.

He swallowed a sigh. Perhaps John was right. This was messy. But there was still a possibility he was wrong, maybe she didn't suspect a thing…he always missed something. And at the end of the day, this was for Molly's own good.

He stared blindly ahead as he shrank into his mind palace and recalled the file on Byron Graves. He was American, a CIA agent who was stationed in Europe due to his multilingual talents and excellent skills as a codebreaker. He was often used to intercept and interpret highly classified communications. He had worked with MI6 and Mycroft's teams in the past, and had a stellar record working undercover.

Since he wasn't always on active duty, and when he was, it mostly involved cryptography, Sherlock surmised the man would just have enough intrigue and danger to entice Molly, while also tickling her intellect. And since cryptography was mostly done indoors at safe zones, and _other_ agents were the ones dying to collect said information, the relative amount of actual danger Molly would be in would be less if he were doing both.

However, when he wasn't on a case, he worked as a sous chef at a small French bistro. Based on Byron's past dating record, he favored strong, petite women—Molly, in a nutshell, Sherlock thought. When he'd reviewed Byron's file and scoured through his photos, he concluded that physically most women would find Byron attractive. No, he wasn't as tall as Sherlock, but he was filled out and athletic, with a very charming, almost boyish all-American face.

Most women would fall all over this Byron.

 _But Molly isn't most women_. He could almost hear his Mind Palace Mary scold him.

Suddenly, he felt a warmth cover his hand and he threw a startled glance at his seat mate, who was looking a tad pale.

"Sorry," she said through stiff lips. "I just… I get nervous right before take-off. Please indulge me."

Sherlock wasn't sure what prompted him, but he felt a sudden surge of… something? Protectiveness? Concern? He wasn't sure what it was, except that Molly's hand seemed incredibly small, and the way she was shrinking into her seat made her look the entirety of her five-foot-three height.

So he said nothing and simply turned his palm so he could lace their fingers together more securely.

Her lashes fluttered with simultaneously in confusion and relief, and he gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.

Her hand in his, Sherlock felt even more certain that he was doing the right thing.

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.

.

The rest of the flight was rather mundane and unremarkable. Molly was fine with planes once take-off and landing were dealt with; she simply had an irrational fear when the pressure changed. It was why she also avoided rollercoasters and the like.

Despite her annoyance and anger with the entire point of the trip, she found herself grateful for Sherlock's presence. He hadn't mocked her phobia and held her hand calmly. She knew that he wasn't comfortable in general with prolonged physical contact but still he held onto her well into the flight and longer than it was probably necessary.

Molly had been the one to pull her hand back to her lap. When she hazarded an embarrassed look toward him, he simply quirked a smile.

Was she a masochist? she wondered. That in the entirety of her knowing him, this pain somehow became pleasurable simply because it meant he paid her attention?

She smothered a sigh. Mary said the man Sherlock had found for her was some sort of agent, but the safest sort, if that made any lick of sense. Mary told her that it wouldn't hurt to meet the guy, just for the shits and giggles; just to see what Sherlock's notion of _ideal man_ for Molly Hooper looked like.

Brian? Brandon? Something with a B … Molly was to act surprised in whatever circumstance they would meet. Since she had no idea what this man looked like or the circumstances which Sherlock wanted them to meet, her surprise probably would be genuine. To be honest, Molly was intrigued that Sherlock thought finding her a partner warranted an international flight.

Maybe Brennan was a decent bloke…?

And now they were decidedly in Nice, waiting at the airport queue for a cab. Maybe it was because she was tired from the flight, emotionally drained from being in such close quarters with the man she was in love with, or the sudden temperature and pressure change leaving England's early fall to a balmy condition…

"I know," Molly blurted out.

Sherlock slanted a glance at her, cool and collected. How does he do that?

"I know," he echoed, rather matter-of-factly. She blinked rapidly and looked at him in surprise. If he _knew,_ then why…? He shrugged, answering her question as if reading her mind. "You needed a vacation anyway."

"Not with you!" Molly exclaimed and bit her lip to stem further words. She was sure this was going to end _poorly_.

"No," he acknowledged easily. "But you could have backed out at any time, so you clearly agree that you needed this trip."

"You didn't need to come," Molly said finally.

"Well, _technically_ ," Sherlock shrugged again, but this time an impish twinkle entered his eye. "I _did_ need to go, since we're flying on Mycroft's dime. There _is_ a case I promised I'd work on for him."

"So killing two birds with one stone?" Molly couldn't stem the bitter note from her voice.

Sherlock looked ready to launch into a manner of diatribes when their cab pulled up.

This was going to be a _long_ trip…

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.

Molly decided that the silent treatment was how she would handle her anger. Frankly, Sherlock was relieved. When John thought the best way to show his ire was to simply shut up and shut him out, Sherlock had always been secretly pleased. It allowed him to recenter and remove himself from an emotionally charged situation, and if Molly was Molly… she would get over it soon enough.

It wasn't until they were at the hotel checking in that Molly became animated again.

Somehow, Mycroft's assistant had them booked as Mr. and Mrs. Stevens for a singular room, instead of the brother-and-sister duo with separate chambers. Sherlock bit back a curse as he knew that Anthea always had a dark sense of humor toward his relationship with Molly. She was almost as bad as the Watsons.

"No," Molly said so forcefully that she startled the front desk person.

Sherlock, sensing an unnecessary public scene, threw an arm across the petite pathologist's shoulders and angled an apologetic glance at the front desk lady. "So sorry, my wife is quite tired. I believe we were booked for a _suite,_ complete with a couch and a small kitchen."

Molly's head whipped so quickly toward him that he was sure she hurt herself. He took that opportunity to lower his head toward her ear, "I will take the couch."

She couldn't mask her stunned expression when he planted a deliberate—though genuinely affectionate—kiss on her forehead as he lifted his head.

The woman at the front desk blinked at the odd display in front of her, but her professional training kicked in because she simply smiled and clicked a few buttons, "Oh, yes, I apologize, Mr. Stevens. It seems you were booked for a suite after all."

"Come on, _wife_ ," Sherlock said pointedly, hoping that Molly's good ol' British decorum would kick in. Her face colored quite becomingly when he placed a hand gently at the small of her back . He nearly sighed in relief when she pasted a stiff smile on her lips and nodded at the front desk in short acknowledgement.

Once they were in the safety—and privacy—of the lift, Molly bit out, "You can stay in the hallway for all I care . We are not sharing a room."

"Considering I have the keycards, it's rather illogical of you to think you can keep me out."

"You said we were to pretend to be _brother and sister_ . Is there no end to deceit today?"

The escalator dinged with abruptness as they reached their hotel floor. Sherlock was reaching the end of his patience. "That was—Anthea is being meddlesome. I assure you, our covers were meant to be siblings."

"Am I just some sort of sick joke to you?" To Sherlock's horror, he recognized the slight hitch in her tone indicating more hurt than anger. Anger, he could deal with. Hurt? Not his area…

"No, of course not," Sherlock said quickly, but Molly was already in full rant mode.

"Parading me as your _pretend_ wife, suddenly having to share a suite—Are you simply trying to have one last laugh at my expense before you shove me off to some random bloke you read a dossier on?"

"No, that's not what—"

"Give me the keys," Molly said abruptly, holding her hand out. "Both of them. I am serious. I don't care where you stay. You are _not_ going to share a suite with me. You _are not_ going to ruin my holiday."

"But the case—"

"You and I both know whatever this 'case' is, you probably could do blindfolded. And you know what? Sod this Blake or whatever his name is. I want you to give me those keys, and… and leave me alone!"

Something about the way her voice pitched higher startled Sherlock to shove the keycards into her outstretched hands.

"Thank you," she said stiltedly. "Now, go away."

Without even a backward glance, she gathered her luggage and stomped toward the room.

.

.

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A/N: I wanted to play around with the idea of breaking certain tropes: the suddenly single room vs separate; the fake marriage. I wanted to play around with the idea that Molly knew everything almost right away than several chapters later. Still writing this off from the seat of my pants, but I am having fun putting them in situations where it doesn't work out as planned.


End file.
